


I Got You

by Drunkportuguese



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beefy Bucky, Enemies at first sight, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Homophobia, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Skinny!Steve, Stucky - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Work In Progress, and steve is his angry usual self, bucky is a shithead, despite his alcohol problem, generally shitty neighbors, mentions of weed, minor Sam Wilson/Steve Rogers, will update the tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21665992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drunkportuguese/pseuds/Drunkportuguese
Summary: Steve just moved into his first house after art school, after a few years of hard-work and much patience.Bucky is his only neighbor, and also a drunk asshole.Will update tags as i go.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 0

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, it's 2:49 in the morning. I have to get up at 8h10 for gym (damn past me), and I'm so sleep deprived I got a headache. Tomorrow I got classes until 7pm. All of this to show how devoted I am to this stupid AU, and I love it.
> 
> Its based on a music video called We Got You by Lemaitre i think, but rest assured it will NOT end the same way. Hehe.
> 
> Will update tags as I go.
> 
> Watch for alcohol abuse, and explicit sexual content in the future.

Art school had been everything Steve dreamt it would be. Unfortunately, that also included the exorbitant tuition fees, and only after a few years of hard work, late nights finishing commissions, and a lot of inconvenient flat sharing, had Steve finally gathered up just enough money to buy a nice little house in the far outskirts of the city, in a quaint, small neighborhood surrounded by plenty of undergrowth, a handful of big trees, and a couple of houses. If it weren’t for the big skyscrapers just barely into view on the horizon, one would think it was just a lone town in the middle of nowhere.

Stepping out of the old bus with a big suitcase and a backpack full of clutter, the empty bus sped away while Steve tried to make sense of the map displayed on his phone, when a full-screen window popped-up on the display, covering the map completely.

**_Warning_ ** _: Data limit reached.  
Your plan does not permit further navigation before the payment of-_

“Shit.”

Steve’s hand dropped as he looked up, blond locks drooping over his forehead, glistening in the heat of the full summer sun. He squinted, trying to look for a street sign he could recognize, or, ideally, an official building where he could ask for directions. Eventually, he gave up.

 _I’ll just pay the damn extra._ Better than spending half an hour squinting in the sun.

He tapped his bank’s app.

_Service unavailable without an internet connection.  
Please check-_

Steve cursed with a punch to his thigh, and with a skip of a heartbeat, Steve’s phone nearly slipped out of his sweaty hands, only to fall when he tried to shove it into his pocket moments later.

Steve stared at the cracked screen laying miserably by his feet, feeling a droplet of sweat slide down his temple. _Well, off to a great fucking start._


	2. Chapter 1, pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired. My head hurts. I'm posting this chapter along with chapter 0 and chapter 1, pt2. Pray for me, i just wannna get beef at the gym but tomorrow will hurt.

Three hours later, Steve’s backpack was dropped unceremoniously by the door of his house to the sound of keys left jingling in the lock, and Steve’s … _odorous_ … sneakers were kicked away to a random corner, not bothering with undoing the shoelaces. The suitcase was left standing square and vertical in the middle of the corridor, handle still pulled all the way up.

The next item to make acquaintances with the floor was Steve’s soaked t-shirt, and on the way to the bathroom were his crumpled shorts, followed closely by his equally odorous socks.

Steve didn’t even bother with closing the door, just jumped into the tub and threw his underwear haphazardly, landing it inside the open toilet without a care in the world, and opened the shower faucet all the way to the coldest it could go.

Steve closed his eyes expecting a refreshing wave of ice-cold goodness, but instead nothing came out of the old plastic showerhead.

 _I forgot to turn on the water,_ he realized, staring at a wall tile like it was another one of his tuition bills.

His eyes snapped to the dark blue boxer briefs hanging on to dear life in the edge of the seat, already half-way soaked with stale toilet water, and he cursed his luck for the countless time in the past few hours.


	3. Chapter 1, pt.2

Next door, in the only occupied house nearby, a dark figure rolled out of the sofa and onto the floor, kicking away a questionably dirtied up pornographic magazine as it rose to its feet.

A long, loud belch echoed in the dark room, and the figure threw an empty beer bottle back onto the still warm couch.

All the heavy, dusty curtains were closed, drowning the room in an eerie, dusky shadow that only allowed for silluettes, so it was the more of a shock when the inside of a fridge shone like a distress beacon in the midnight high-sea.

Long, messy, greasy brown hair was turned into a halo by the fridge light, head dipping as an attempt to shield squinting blue eyes from the harsh light. Metal clanked as the man grunted and flicked aside an empty soda can.

He pulled the cardboard remains of a pack of beer out of the fridge, letting it fall to the ground by his feet, and grabbed a jar of what to the untrained eye would be a clear health hazard, more commonly known as homemade _kvass_.

Shutting the fridge with a knee, the man trapped the jar with his left armpit, and the snappy lid was detached by a hand whose viciously bitten nails had seen much better days.

The awkward angle and jerky, drunken opening of the jar resulted in a small spill, to which the man did not, and would never, give a fuck about.

Half of the nearly flammable contents of the jar were gone by the time the man reached the bathroom door.

Taking another swallow of the drink, he set the jar by the bathroom sink and stood over the toilet, pulling his dick through the underwear flap and disposing of the results of the latest drinking bender he was currently going through.

He shook the last droplets and stuffed his dick back into the underwear. The faucet was turned on and he let the water run over his hand, turning it off without using soap and wiping a wet palm to his underwear, what with the lack of clean towels around.

The man grabbed a last chug of kvass, head dipping back as he tried to drink as much as he possibly could, and then wiping a stray drop with the still wet back of his hand.

The empty jar was left in the bathroom sink as quickly as another one was grabbed from the fridge, and in the span of a minute the man was back on the couch, staring at the black screen of the tv, contemplating whether he should go back to sleep or grab one of those magazines again.

He decided against both. The drink helped but he had slept too much already, even for his alcohol-drowned mind, and the crusty old magazines just didn’t do justice to the better online stuff. He side-eyed his phone’s charger cord, USB connector nowhere to be found, a mess of ripped wires in its place.

 _Wonder what time it is._ Leaning precariously over the coffee table, he got up to his feet and walked to the nearest window, daring a one-eyed peek to the outside world for the first time in days.

The summer sun hit his deprived skin with the full force of a science fiction-worthy laser beam. Somewhere during the last week, the “For Sale” sign of the house next to his was removed, upturned dirt and grass left in its wake.

His violent grimace turned into an inquisitive squint when, curiously, he spotted movement inside. His eyes were drawn to the window, through fully opened curtains, where a lanky, blond, soaking wet man cupping his genitals tiptoed around ungracefully, franticly searching the floor for something.

 _This is going to be interesting._ He concluded, taking another swig of kvass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe you read all this. Thank you! If you see any mistakes, let me know. Hugs, I am now going to sleep. Good night!


	4. Chapter 2 - A week later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OwO what's this? Me, updating a fic? Sadly, that's something I've never heard. Yeah, this is the only multi-chapter work I have *ever* updated online.  
> It's been a long time, yes! But I'm a college student and I'm currently literally in the middle of exam season, so please please bear with me. I know you will.  
> I trust this chapter will at least keep those interested sated for a little while longer. As soon as exam season is over, I'm bumping this to full speed. I hope.  
> Enjoy!

_A week later..._

The house ends up being one of the best purchases Steve’s ever done. For quite possibly the first time in his life, Steve establishes a comfortable routine that allows him both free time and good working hours. Being self-employed was never easy, but this small, barely occupied neighborhood worked wonders on his sleep, and most often than not he woke up without feeling like absolute overworked shit.

After grabbing a half-eaten tub of ice cream and a spoon, and climbing into bed, Steve dragged his laptop onto his thighs and put on his favorite movie. He’s been made fun of plenty of times for it, but Steve was a huge sucker for superhero movies - yet he couldn’t help he loved the over-the-top cinematography, yet seriousness, of Robert “Captain America” Reeves, and his fight against AMOEBA, helped by none other than the one-eyed Mick Madness, second commander of SWORD. Steve knew and loved these characters more than anything else, second only to his Ma.

It also helped that Robert had the shoulder-to-waist ratio only previously seen in Doritos, and wore the most ridiculous red-and-blue spandex excuse for a “tactical suit”. More like _tight_ ical suit.

Steve had had to admit to himself a long, long time ago that raunchy Captain America commissions were what had kept the lights on during some of his toughest financial times, but he wasn’t ready _yet_ to admit that, actually? He had _really_ enjoyed making those pieces. Maybe a little bit too much.

Long after the last of the ice cream had been scraped off from the carton tub, Steve was fighting sleep as hard as the characters on screen were punching nazis. With time, his body had slid down towards the end of the bed, and with a final head loll, he was sound asleep.

* * *

A couple hours had passed by when Steve’s sleep was interrupted, body jerking awake so hard that he got dizzy from it. His bony hands darted to the laptop, fingers clasping the device clumsily and hurriedly, almost in a panic, barely stopping it from sliding down to the floor.

It took his jumbled brain a couple seconds to understand what was going on. _Not the alarm?_

With dragged out grunt, his golden mess of hair flopped back onto the pillow as he took a second to think, yet before you could say ‘sleep’, Steve’s tired eyes were closing again, consciousness rising to float above his head slow and light, like fog just settling in. The hand on his laptop went limp, and Steve was falling asleep once again.

The sharp sound of broken glass echoed outside, and Steve’s laptop nearly went flying when he flipped the blanket off him. His head snapped to his left, towards one of the windows, and before his consciousness returned fully, he was out of the bed and struggling to stand with a tingling, numb left leg.

Steve reached for the window sill and looked through the holes of the shutter.

Such an empty, remote neighborhood meant that it often went neglected, and the proof was just outside. All the street lights were busted, either broken or having burned through their lifespans, except one that was too far away to be useful.

Fearing a home invasion, he reached under the bed to blindly grip the familiar shape of a well-used baseball bat. In a new house, in a backwoods neighborhood, and physical strength leaving much to be desired, one could never be too careful.

Readjusting the grip on the bat out of pure adrenaline, Steve slowly treaded across the cold wooden floor, peeking through the key hole before stepping out of the room.

The single window at the end of the corridor let weak moonlight climb inside, and Steve dared another peek, this time without the shutters to impede his view.

Out by the pavement leading to his unused driveway, amidst the contents of a trash bag, a small creature moved in rapid, short little jerks, throwing the waste everywhere. Something in the ground off to its side glinted when Steve moved, and upon further inspection, he realized it was just a smashed glass bottle.

Not really intending to use the bat on the animal, but fearing for a possible nasty bite, Steve carried the bat with him as he exited through the back door and tried to approach the creature as silently as possible, banking on the element of surprise to work in his favor.

Steve ground his teeth to bear the before-sunrise chill of the ground against his feet and the cold current blowing across his bare torso. He could almost hear his Ma telling him off about leaving the house without proper clothing, how it’ll make his asthma go off.

 _I haven’t had an asthma attack in years,_ he realized, but he also hadn’t been expecting such a cold night in the middle of the summer.

Steve spotted the wild animal, still too focused on its midnight snack, and approached as slowly and quietly as he could manage.

“Shoo!” exclaimed Steve, opening his arms wide in a rather futile attempt to make himself look bigger to the raccoon.

The poor creature looked so frightened that after it ran away, with its chubby, furry body waving with each stride, that Steve felt a small pang of guilt for interrupting the creature’s feast.

He stared at the contents of the trash bag, spilled all over his driveway, and realized that it was mostly composed of takeout and empty alcoholic beverage bottles. His neighbor’s, then. He tried to cover the opening of the bag as well as he had the patience to, and decided he’d deal with it in the morning.

One last careful look around his property and ten minutes later Steve was back inside, hands and feet red from the hot water he washed them in before climbing back to bed. Hopefully the raccoon wouldn’t bother him anymore that night, or any other night, for that matter.

He pulled the covers up to his ears promptly logged off for the night.

* * *

Morning dragged itself in slow and lazy, and Steve woke up feeling well rested, despite last night’s surprise visitor.

After pulling up the shutters and basking in the warm light like a lazy cat, Steve trotted down the stairs, grabbing a jam jar and spreading some of it on a piece of bread. He never thought he’d ever be a morning person, but _hey, look at me now, huh?_

He scrolled through the same three social media apps until he was done having breakfast. Putting a plate on the sink, Steve eyed the garbage bin and figured it needed emptying.

It’s early in the morning still, but the sun is already strong enough to warm the concrete beneath Steve’s feet when he walked out the door, trash bag in hand.

When he turned around to return inside, he noticed the trash bag in his driveway. The huge amount of glass shards meant he’d rather have his neighbor deal with it then to be a good neighbor and throw it out himself. He also wanted to ask him how _the hell_ did the trash bag even _get_ to his driveway. That raccoon was a well-fed one, but unless it had an army of friends, it could not have dragged the enormous bag that long of a way alone.

Steve thought about his neighbor as he put on a pair of sneakers and made himself look more presentable. His neighbor was a mysterious man, who’s so cryptic he might as well be the actual Bigfoot. _Looks the part, too._

Steve had seen him only once the whole week he’s been at his new place, when an exhausted delivery boy brought four pizzas to his door, and Bigfoot came out the door to pay, in a wifebeater, boxer shorts and a loose open robe. His long hair was such a bird’s nest its only salvation was probably a pair of scissors, managing successfully hide Bigfoot’s face from Steve, but by the delivery boy’s hurried jog when getting back to his motorbike, the man wasn’t too sociable.

And now, Steve had to go meet him, in _person_ , to **_complain_** , no less.

And Steve did, because his Ma didn’t raise a coward.

“Excuse me? Mister, huh-“ Steve realized he had no idea what was Bigfoot’s name. He should probably stop calling the guy that, too. “I’m your neighbor, we haven’t met yet. I need to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

Steve waited for a while. He was starting to think maybe nobody was inside when he heard movement. A few seconds later and the door was still closed.

“Excuse me? I know you’re in there, I just need to talk to you about the trash on my driveway!”

Still, no answer. This guy sure was friendly.

The inside of the house was completely hidden from the outside, giving the house a haunted feel that Steve didn’t think was too far off from the reality, what with the pungent, moldy smell coming from the inside.

Maybe whoever’s inside the house is just a friend, not supposed to open the door, while Bigfoot was out? That was a possible scenario, but not very likely. One more try and Steve would leave.

“C’mon man! I just moved here, I only want to get rid of the-“

Suddenly, the door opens.  
From the deep, dark, revoltingly acrid depths of the haunted house, between a pile of leaking takeout and a pair of dirty underwear, beneath layers of bodily grease, food stains and unidentified liquids, and beneath a layer of thick, dark hair, slowly emerges the most handsome man Steve has ever seen in his life.

He’s got sharp features; a wide, strong jaw covered in stubble, intense blue eyes, and a cleft chin that gives his face a softer appearance despite the overall naturally assertive look.

He’s wearing, well… almost nothing, much to Steve’s demise. The wifebeater makes another appearance, disgusting as ever, as does what looks to be the _same_ pair of boxers from the other day. The elastic band of his underwear is not sitting identical on his hips, the right side pulled up way too much, and left side sagging and twisted, like he put those on with only his right hand.

Which made sense, because after noticing his thick, beefy torso, the corded muscle of his thighs, and the beginnings of a beer belly and a pair of love handles, he also noticed the _lack_ of a left hand, arm cut just under the elbow, and the nastiest, most painful looking burn scar Steve’s ever seen in his entire life. The scar was rooted so far up his arm and into his shoulder that Steve could see it peeking through the other side of the wifebeater’s shoulder strap, just above the collar.

“What the hell d’you want?” the man asks, clearly annoyed, voice rough from sleep.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately, because the question just flew above his head at mach 3, and the man grunts, gripping the door as he leans over Steve. He’s not much taller than him, but Steve still feels like the man is towering over him like a tsunami waiting to come down.

“Answer me _pizda_! The fuck d’you want?” _Huh. Russian accent._ Steve’s face got covered in spittle after the particularly angry foreign insult.

Steve wiped his face, slightly more composed now. This man might be Steve’s _exact_ _fucking_ _type_ beneath all the mess, but the trash bag is still out on his driveway.

“I need you to clean up the trash on my driveway, it’s from your trash bag.” He said, calm but firm, crossing his arms in an involuntary attempt to look bigger.

“Get lost blondie. I ain’t gonna clean jack shit.” He snarled.

And with that, Bigfoot-Adonis stepped back and slammed the door shut.

Steve’s look turned empty. _This guy is **really** getting on my nerves._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave a comment if you enjoyed the story so far! We're still in the very beggining, yet I will always appreciate your comments and kudos!
> 
> I'm on twitter @drunkportuguese, and on tumblr at drunkportuguese. These days I'm more active on twitter so come shoot me a dm or check out my profile if you're ever bored! xoxo


	5. Chapter 3, part 1 - Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: explicit homophobia, mentions of weed, underage drinking, and !explicit! violence.
> 
> Barton makes an appearance. He grew up in a farm kinda isolated which is why he speaks like that.

Steve didn’t like bullies.

Steve’s always been known for being stubborn and picking too many fights. His ma would often have to patch him up late in the evening when he’d return home, bloody and limping, having had his ass beaten to hell and back by the neighborhood ruffians or the school bullies. Sometimes both.

But it never mattered to Steve how broken his nose got, how long the bruises would take to heal, nor how many meals he’d have to skip due to a sore stomach. What was important was that he’d distract them, take their attention away from the person they decided to pick on that day. He’d take a beating any day over walking by injustice without doing something to help.

However, Steve didn’t always go into those fights. Sometimes, the fights came to him.

He’d always been a little out of the norm. Most people looked at him weirdly no matter how much effort he’d put into sports to try to “compensate” for his artistic tendencies. Steve was smaller than the average guy, never really had that big growth spurt during his teenage years, and although he now appreciates how he looks, back in middle school he’d always resented how he looked more feminine when compared to the bigger guys in his class. Sometimes people made throwaway jokes about his stature; he used to wish they’d just make those nasty comments to his face, instead of hiding their mockery behind a seemingly innocent joke. If he tried to retaliate, they’d answer with “It’s just a joke!” and then, somehow, _he_ ’d be in the wrong.

The real, direct bullying, however, started when he met Sam.

**_Beginning of the school year, 11 th grade, early September_ **

_God,_ were morning gym classes _the_ _worst_.

Not only was it freezing cold outside, Steve’s delusional teacher thought dealing with the devil in the form of risking pneumonia was a good warm-up exercise, so every morning he’d make Steve’s class go for a nice little 20 minute run around the school grounds.

Steve was currently running around the back of the school, between the high stone wall and a forested area. Noone, besides students running, went through there, so Steve slowed down his pace, trying to catch up his breath, breathing painfully. His lungs never enjoyed the cold, and his gym teacher’s image burned up in the flames of hell in Steve’s mind.

_«Builds character» my ass. I can feel my balls on my throat, god-dammit._

“Too choked up to keep going, blondie?” said a mocking voice next to him, between labored breaths.

Steve must’ve said it louder than he’d perceived it, because the guy had jogged up next to him and was now looking at him.

“No, but your mom was, last night” he replied, playfully yet with a thinly-veiled sliver of hostility.

The guy looked ahead while they ran, smirk forming on his lips. “Ooh, you got a big mouth today,” he said, annoyingly pleased. Steve’s never seen a more infuriating smile on someone’s face. “Might be just enough to fit my dick, get you choked up _for real_ , what do you say, fag? I bet you get off on it, huh?” He laughed, bumping Steve’s shoulder with more strength than necessary.

“Get out of my face Brock, if anyone’s a fag it’s you and your repressed bullshit. You think I don’t see you eyeing up Barton’s ass in the showers?”

That seemed to set him off. In a second, Brock was on top of him, struggling to immobilize him. Steve fought back, and the two rolled around in the gravel trying to cave in each other’s ribs before an unfamiliar voice shouted a “Hey!” from a distance, and seconds later Steve was being pulled away from Brock.

_Great, another meathead, just what I fuckin’needed._

Now that they were physically separated, the fight seemed to settle down. But then Brock, dragging himself up from the ground and shaking off the gravel stuck to his skin, locked eyes with Steve again and, rage refueled, darted with killing intent. The jock holding Steve from behind by the elbows let go of him, pushed him aside, and squared his shoulders.

“Nu-huh-don’t you dare!” He warned, putting himself between Brock and Steve, and when the bully tried to dodge him, he vigorously pushed against Brock’s chest with a hand.

Brock and the jock locked eyes, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the jock interrupted, voice quiet and heavy. “Piss off.”

Much to Steve’s surprise, Brock left with nothing but a kick to the muddy gravel and a furious stare into Steve’s eyes that promised trouble at a later time. Steve spat bloodied saliva on the ground in his direction and returned his stare with an equally powerful _«Bring it on»_.

“ _You_ stop it as well, what the hell was going on?” The jock asked, turning to Steve with a disapproving look. Steve tried to avoid staring at the guy’s huge chest and strong shoulders too much, which proved very difficult considering they were at his eye level.

Steve’s wandering eyes focused on the jock’s, brow furrowed. “None of your business,” he spat. The anger still burned inside him, and he didn’t have the patience to deal with this guy.

Steve began walking again but the guy wouldn’t leave his side. “I think it is, though. I _did_ save your ass back there.” There was a distinct smiling intonation in his voice.

“Look, thank you for that, but I had him on the ropes.” Steve ran faster, tried to outrun him. Still, the jock kept the same pace as his.

“Didn’t look like that to me.” He replied, pointing at Steve’s arm, scratched bloody with gravel bits in the wound. “You should probably get that checked out.”

Steve was getting more and more fed-up of this guy. “Thanks mom. Now, if you don’t mind, I got a run to finish.” He began full-on sprinting. This time, luckily, it seemed like the jock was not going to keep going next to him.

Steve was already ahead by a few feet when the stranger shouted at him.

“It’s because you’re gay isn’t it?”

Steve stopped dead in his tracks, nearly slipping on the muddy gravel and losing his balance.

 _«Gay»_. Now _there’s_ a word Steve’s very familiar with.

Steve let out a cynical chuckle, and turned around, faced the jock straight through the distance between them. Steve couldn’t find in him the words for a proper reply, so he just crossed his arms.

The jock walked calmly towards him. “You don’t need to say anything, but let’s just say I have an eye for this type of stuff. I won’t tell anybody.”

Steve wasn’t about to let his pride die so easily. “Yeah you won’t, because there’s _nothing_ to tell anyone _. I’m not gay_. Haven’t you heard? I dated Peggy Carter last year.” He replied, smug, like he somehow deserved a medal for that. Steve would look back in the next few years and think of how poor of an excuse that was; both to others, and to himself.

“I don’t know who she is, but from what you’re telling me, you both aren’t dating anymore, are you? I wonder why.” The guy replied, walking closer to Steve.

Everyone knew Peggy, which meant he was new in the school. Also explains why Steve hadn’t recognized him.

“I’m not fucking gay! What the hell do you have to do with my life anyway?”

“Nothing. I’m just someone who wants to help.” The guy was getting closer and closer to Steve, staring him down with determination.

“What if I don’t want any help,” countered Steve, now calmer, and the guy’s strong gaze was unavoidable.

Steve could see the sweat glistening off of his dark skin, making it shine beautifully in the morning sun. Steve gulped, averting his eyes from the guy’s biceps. Maybe… _maybe he was a little not straight?_ The thought terrified him, put a void in his stomach.

Deep down, however, Steve kind of always knew. His relationship with Peggy had been nothing but a farce, an excuse so she could go out with her _girlfriend_ on the pretense of going out with Steve. Being with girls was never something neither his mind nor body had ever showed any interest on, despite his desperate attempts to date around. Not that he’d had many chances anyway.

Steve deflated. It was not often he was defeated by his own thoughts.

The jock was now face-to-face with him. “Hey, look at me,” he asked, voice quiet, almost pitiful. “I’m not gonna tell anybody, okay?”

Steve looked to the side, gaze unfocused on the forest foliage. “And why should I believe you? I don’t even know you.”

The guy took his chin and turned Steve’s head to him. After a brief startle Steve settled in his unavoidable eyes, and the jock leaned ever so closely so his face. “I don’t know you either. But maybe I’d like to get to know you a little better.” There was a barely visible stretch of flushed skin on his cheeks, and Steve envied him. He was sure his face made a tomato look pale in comparison.

Steve was staring at his plump lips and fought the unfamiliar urge to close the _very short_ distance between them and his.

The jock pulled away, confident façade falling after seeing Steve’s blush from so up close. He ran a hand over his short curly undercut and smiled, extended an open hand in greeting.

“I’m Sam.”

“Huh, hi, I’m Steve,” he replied, and reciprocated the handshake. Sam’s hand felt like a blazing fire under his skin.


	6. Chapter 3, part 2 - Ashes

From then on, Steve became… obsessed, you could say. He realized he _really_ wanted to be Sam’s friend.

They never really talked about how bold Sam was when they first met. Steve didn’t want to bring it up for fear of unearthing some things about himself he did not want to know, and Sam seemed to be mostly embarrassed by the whole situation. So they moved on.

Sam turned out to be a great guy. He was funny, smart, and just as determined as Steve when it came to making sure everyone felt included no matter who they were. He loved the same videogames as Steve, and while he was not an art kid, he’d always ask to see Steve’s newest sketches, and awe in marvel despite Steve’s simples, rough lines on smudged paper. It felt good to have someone truly interested in his silly drawings - beyond his Ma.

They’d spend most of their free afternoons together, catching up on schoolwork as soon and as quickly as possible, before booting up a movie marathon before their pens had time to cool off. Both Sam and Steve were starting to really like this “Robert Reeves” guy and his superhero shenanigans.

Sam was _too_ great, in fact, because Steve ended up falling in love with him.

Steve battled with his confused feelings for a whole year, before he finally told Sam how he felt, on the first week of summer break during a camping trip with their friends. The other guys had already gone to their tents, sleepy with booze and weed, but Sam stayed by the fire, on Steve’s request.

They were sitting on the ground, dusty like a path well-used, but they did not care if their clothes got dirty. Steve toyed with an empty beer bottle, shakily trying to steady his breaths as Sam waited patiently for him to speak.

Sam shifted to a more attentive cross-legged position once he saw how difficult it was for Steve to start to speak.

Eventually, he gently put a hand over Steve’s, steadied the bottle, and then all he could see were Steve’s bloodshot eyes looking up at him.

“Steve, it’s okay, you can tell me what’s wrong. It’s just me here,” he whispered. Sam settled his other hand over Steve’s and squeezed it softly. His face was all concern.

Steve’s was all pain.

* * *

He poured his heart out. By the end, he was crying softly, staring at the ashes in front of them. He knew Sam would listen to him but coming to terms with his sexuality in the past year, compounded with the fact that he was in love with _his best friend_ , proved to be too much for his messy teenager heart. If the feelings were not reciprocated, they could at least still be friends, right?

_Right?_

Sam watched him with an unreadable expression, features lit up softly by the dying ashes and the faint moonlight. The laughs and snorts from their classmates were muffled, distant, out of view as Steve’s view tunneled, focused on Sam’s facial features he’d gotten too used to drawing.

The massive pine trees towered over them, darker and taller, and the Milky Way in the sky grew larger, gargantuan above them both, dominating the black sky reflecting on Sam’s eyes. Steve’s heart was in his hands.

Sam leant forward and kissed him. Steve’s heart exploded into a mist of happiness and relief and… _fear._

Sam seemed to notice this. A hand cupped Steve’s jaw, thumb faintly caressing his cheek, and only then did Steve kiss back, fear forgotten.

An ember shot out from the ashes and disappeared into the night sky, much like a shooting star. Steve closed his eyes and wished that that moment would never end.


	7. Chapter 3, part 3 - Misery

Sam was the one to pull away. Steve’s heartbeat throbbed in his head. His face was wet with tears that Sam carefully wiped away.

“I know it’s confusing,” whispered Sam, mouths ever so close. “But… we can work this out, okay? I’m here for you.”

Steve nodded, looked down at the hand he’d used as support to lean on Sam, and rubbed at the little marks left by the earthy ground.

Sam let out a relieved but happy breath and smiled affectionately.

“I was _so afraid_ you’d reject me,” sniffed Steve, fighting a smile. “I should’ve known, though.”

Steve took in Sam’s puzzled look. “Robert Reeves, and that crazy lycra onesie? Don’t tell me you only watched that stuff for the action scenes,” he said, chuckling softly.

Sam outright laughed. “You think you’re funny now, huh?” he pushed jokingly at Steve. “You like that lycra-covered ass as much as I did, don’t even try to deny it.”

Steve laughed, and they looked at each other fondly. Steve was _so thankful_ that he had Sam in his life.

Before long, Sam was speaking to him again.

“So… do you want to stay here, or should we go see what’s up with all that hysterical laughing over there?” He pointed at the big noisy tent behind them, a few feet away.

“Yeah, yeah, good idea.” Steve wiped what was left of his tears. This could’ve gone a lot worse.

They got up, dusted their shorts and t-shirts, but before they could walk any further, the sound of dirt bikes from deep inside the dark forest roared like they were about to be jumped by the _Mad Max_ cast.

Barton’s head poked out of the hotboxed tent, bleary eyed and confused.

“What’s goin’on?” he asked, looking at them for answers, while unknown hands tried to pull him back inside, narrowly missing his hearing aid.

The two shook their heads.

“Hol’up, don’t Brock n’his band of wackos ride dirt bikes?” asked Barton, eloquent as ever.

Before any of them could do something, blinding headlights jumped out of the forest, motors cackling as maniacally like their riders. Sooner than later, Steve and Sam saw themselves surrounded by a dust cloud so thick it made their eyes water and their throat dry instantly. They stuck close together, powerless against the three riders circling them like hyenas waiting to strike.

Through the deep cloud of dust, Steve saw Barton and the others get out of the tent and make a run for it towards the van, parked much further away. _Fucking awesome. Just- great. Fuck._

The bikes didn’t stop, however. The three riders dispersed, and one of them accelerated straight onto the dying fire, sending hot ash flying everywhere, onto the trees, towards the tent, and Steve saw a spark fade into a hole on his shirt. The other two riders circled the tent and slashed at it with knives, leaning dangerously on their bikes.

All three of the riders’ identities were hidden by reflective helmets, but Steve knew who they were, and he tried to single out Brock. Sam, however, seemed much more interested in getting the fuck out of there, so he grabbed Steve’s arm and pulled him towards the direction of the van.

Barton and the others had already reached it, and Steve saw headlights blinking on. Tony, whose whole torso was leaning over the driver’s window, shouted something unintelligible at them, and made hurried hand motions.

Steve ran, but his asthma got the best of him, and he promptly collapsed, suffocating. He felt an immense weight on his chest and coughed so much he couldn’t breathe. He grasped uselessly at his throat, then rolled on all fours and wheezed so hard he could hear his throat whistling.

Sam, ahead of him, turned a full 180º and ran back. A bike crossed their paths like lightning, and Sam nearly got run over. Another rider, thick tree branch in hand, made for the van, and Tony had no choice but to violently back up, sending Barton out of the window in the process, to avoid getting the windshield shattered. Everyone was screaming.

Meanwhile, pulsating red covered Steve’s vision like an infection, dark and slowly more constricting. His lungs were as heavy as the van, and he was stuck writhing on the ground, gripping at his shirt so hard it had a rip at the collar, right beneath his convulsing Adam’s apple.

 _Please don’t die, please don’t die, please…_ Steve’s brain repeated the mantra faster than his heart could beat. His eyes turned red and his face turned blue, heels digging at the ground haphazardly.

He wondered where Sam was. He couldn’t even hear him through the blood vibrating through his head and the motors circling him.

_Help me please help me I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t wanna die Sam please-_

Suddenly, one of the bikes went down, its rider with it. The machine skidded and crashed against a tree further away. There was a piece of metal from the tent wedged through the front wheel, mangled almost beyond recognition.

“SAM!” yelled Barton, emerging from the wreckage of the tent, and then a blue object landed at Sam’s feet. _Steve’s inhaler._

A second biker stopped circling Steve and made for Barton, smashing whatever parts of the tent were still up as Barton barely dodged it, meeting his temporary end when he toppled over the wreckage and smashed head first onto an old tree trunk.

Sam’s head snapped down and he grabbed the inhaler.

The downed biker ran towards Steve. In the opposite direction, Sam did the same.

Thankfully, Sam had always been a great runner. He reached Steve a split second faster than the biker on foot, shoved the inhaler into Steve’s mouth and pressed it. Steve’s eyes rolled up into his head before he regained his conscience and took over Sam’s hands on the inhaler, pressed again on it, clinging to it like a deep diver clings to the emergency rebreather.

Sam is tackled by the biker on foot, who proceeds to slam the back of his head into the ground repeatedly. Sam lands a punch to their cheek, but the helmet disperses the force back to him and he ends up getting more hurt because of it, knuckles bloody.

He tries another punch at the attacker’s throat, but before he can hit it, his foot is grabbed and now Sam’s being dragged by the last rider.

They let him go almost immediately, like he’s prey on a rabid dog’s mouth. While Sam’s trying to regain his footing, the biker on foot throws his helmet at his groin, and Sam falls again. Above the bike’s vicious roar, Steve hears Brock’s raspy voice.

“That’s for disrespecting me!” He yelled, savage.

He repeatedly brings his foot down, hard, on Sam’s side. “And _that’s_ for being a disgusting! _Fucking! Fag!_ ” _  
_Sam’s writhing, gasping through the pain. From Steve’s point of view from the ground, Brock’s silhouette is surrounded by a cloud of smoke and bright orange. He doesn’t yet realize the forest has caught fire. Steve’s view is obstructed only momentarily by the biker still circling them like a vulture.

The biker occasionally picks up Sam by some opportune extremity and drags him for a couple feet before letting go of him again, like he’s some toy and not a living, breathing, human being.

Steve is teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, can’t bring himself to move his limbs no matter how hard he tries. And he tries, again and again and again for as long as he can think clearly. Sam’s suffering. _Because of him_.

Steve lets out a ragged breath, a cry of effort, and slams the inhaler on the ground, pushes himself up by some miracle. Brock’s still shouting homophobic insults at Sam, _his_ Sam, when Steve’s slumped posture makes a last-ditch effort to walk.

The biker makes a sharp turn and, leaving Sam behind, tried to land a moving kick at Steve’ head. Steve falls to his knees in the precise moment the kick would’ve hit him. He realizes he can’t move much further, nor can his ruined throat be of any use. Steve has never felt this useless before. He’s crying from the smoke in his eyes, he’s crying from the pain, but most importantly, he’s crying for Sam.

Sam, who not even a few minutes ago comforted him so softly.  
Sam, whose lips were so soft they made Steve’s heart flutter on sight.  
Sam, with eyes like the midnight sky and a smile like the noon sun.  
Sam, who enjoyed silly superhero movies and cutesy videogames.  
Sam, who, under his strong posture and built body, has a heart of gold with the capacity to love every being in the world two fold.

Sam, who was always there to defend him and anyone that needed it, who was now defenseless on the dirt.

Steve tries to reach him but hits the ground instead. Brock turns around and faces him, walking slowly, like a dark, looming storm. His bloodied and dirtied body is framed by the flames roaring around them. He squats in front of Steve, grabs his jaw and digs his fingernails in, drawing blood. He leans closer, forces Steve to look at him.

“Told you not to mess with me, _blondie_.” His breath smells like alcohol, and his hair, oily and muddy and desperately needing a cut, clings onto his forehead.

He throws Steve’s head onto the ground and walks back over to where Sam is struggling to breathe.

Brock lets out a venomous chuckle, looks down at Sam. The flames are as high as a house now, and the bright red and orange glow frames Brock’s figure like he clawed his way up from the deepest parts of Hell, and brought some of it with him. He stares straight through Steve’s soul, rips it open and readies his claws for a strike.

“Your buddy here should’ve known better than to mess with me, blondie.”

He slams a foot down on Sam’s head, and the claws dig into Steve’s soul. His body and mind are bleeding profusely.

Sam’s immobile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart hurts.


	8. Chapter 3, part 4 - Present day

Steve stares out of his window, at his neighbor’s house, and sees him dump all his trash onto his driveway, complete with a middle finger.

Then, it’s an old-looking bong that flies out the window, breaking against the wood paneling of his house, his _home_ , shattering into a dozen different pieces.

Then it’s a half-full moldy jar. Next goes another trash bag, and some take out boxes follow suit.

It’s been going for about 20 minutes now, this temper tantrum, caused by his simple request to clean his driveway. He knows better than to try to stop it at its worst, knows it’s better to let it pass.

Steve’s furious, more upset than he should, and he can’t really put his finger on _why_.

Unsurprisingly, another pizza delivery boy arrives. The trash dumping stops, and the front door of his neighbor’s house opens. Out comes the offender himself, greasy hair clinging to his face. He takes the three pizzas with his prosthetic arm and refuses to pay.

When the delivery boy protests and accidentally puts a hand on the man, a hand flies out and cruelly pushes against his chest, causing him to tumble over the porch steps and onto the ground. The delivery boy gathers his footing, pale as wheat flour, and books it back to his car.

Steve realizes why he’s so disproportionately angry now.  
He recalls greasy, messy hair, alcoholic breath, and a superiority complex, and grabs his baseball bat.

Steve _still_ doesn’t like bullies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on chapter 3.  
> Fun experiment that I am in no way responsible for any unintended results, do not do if you have respiratory problems: completely block your mouth and nose with one hand, and press hard with both of your arms on your sternum against a chair, and now try to breathe. That’s what Steve was feeling. Yeah, it sucks ass AND balls. I’m not afraid of a lot of stuff but asphyxiation is right up there with the worst things I could ever experience. Deadpool 1 was fun but that whole weekend torture sequence made me shit bricks.
> 
> I felt very conflicted about what I did to Sam in this chapter. There’s already enough lgbtq+ (and poc, although the climax of this chapter was purely homophobia-based, not race-based) violence out there. However, I’m not portraying these horrific actions in any sort of positive light. Know that, as a fellow gay, my heart weeps for anyone who’s had to experience similar horrific events and that I would *absolutely not* wish this to *anyone*.
> 
> Sam and Steve might eventually get their own separate story, some day. Not soon though, sorry. I'm finally free of exams and i want to play some rainbo six siege n minecraft :D


End file.
